Her accent was British, refined.

Tucker helped her gather the runaway items, then stood up. He nodded at her copy of Anna Karenina. “The butler did it, by the way.”

She blinked at him, momentarily confused.

Tucker added, “In the library, with a lead pipe.”

She smiled. “Well, goodness. Then there’s not much point in my finishing it, is there?”

“Sorry if I ruined it for you.”

“You’ve read it?”

“In high school,” he said.

“And your verdict?”

“Certainly not beach reading. I liked it—but not enough to wade through it a second time.”

“It’s my third time. I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose.” She extended her hand. “Well, thank you again . . .”

He took her hand, finding her fingers soft, but firm. “Tucker,” he said.

“I’m Felice. Thank you for your help. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

It had certainly turned out pleasant.

She turned and started down the corridor. Ten feet away, she stopped and spoke without turning. “It doesn’t seem quite fair, you know.”

Tucker didn’t reply, but waited until she turned to face him before asking, “What isn’t?”

“You spoiling the end of a perfectly good Russian novel.”

“I see your point. I take it that an apology isn’t enough?”

“Not even close.”

“Breakfast, then?”

Her lips pursed as Felice considered this a moment. “Is seven too early for you?”

He smiled. “See you in the morning.”

With a slight wave, she turned and headed down the corridor. He watched until she vanished out of sight, enjoying every step she took.

Once alone, he opened the door to his berth and found Kane sitting on the floor staring up at him. The shepherd must have heard his voice out in the passageway. Kane tilted his head in his customary What’s going on? fashion.

He smiled and scratched Kane between the ears. “Sorry, pal, she didn’t have a friend.”

6

March 8, 6:55 A.M.

Trans-Siberian Railway

The next morning, Tucker arrived five minutes early to find Felice already seated at a booth in the rear of the dining car. For the moment, they had the space to themselves. This time of the year, the sun was still not up, just a rosy promise to the east.

Tucker walked over and sat down. “You’re a morning person, I see.”

“Since I was a little girl, I’m afraid. It drove my parents quite mad. By the way, I ordered coffee for two, if you don’t mind. I’m a much better morning person with caffeine in my system.”

“That makes two of us.”

The waiter arrived with a pair of steaming mugs and took their orders. Felice opted for the closest semblance to a standard big English breakfast. He nodded his approval, appreciating a woman with a good appetite. In turn, he chose an omelet with toasted black bread.

“You’re the owner of that large hound, aren’t you?” Felice asked. “The one that looks smarter than most people on this train.”

“Owner isn’t the word I would use, but yes.” He offered up his service dog story, explaining about his epilepsy. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

At least that last part was true.

“Where are you two headed?” she asked.

“I’m booked to Perm, but I’m flexible. Plenty to explore out here. We might get off and sightsee if the mood strikes us. And you?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Is that an invitation?”

He gave her a shrug that was noncommittal with a hint of invitation, which only widened her smile.

She skirted over to tamer topics. “As to me, I’m headed to Moscow, off to meet some friends from my university days.”

“You went to school there?”

“Goodness, no. Cambridge. Arts and humanities. Hinc lucem et pocula sacra and all that. From here, light and sacred draughts. Latin motto. Very highbrow, you see. Two of my girlfriends moved to Moscow last year. We’re having a small reunion.”

“You boarded in Khabarovsk?”

“Yes. And almost got run over in the parking lot for my trouble. A big black car.”

“I remember hearing some honking, saw some commotion. Was that them?”

She nodded. “Three men, dressed like old-school KGB thugs. Quite gloomy looking. Very rude, marching around the platform like they owned the place, flashing their badges.”

Tucker struggled to keep his brow from furrowing. “Sounds like the police. Perhaps they were looking for someone.”

She took a dismissive sip of coffee. “I can only imagine.”

“It’s not you, is it? I’m not having breakfast with an international art thief?”

She laughed, tilting her head back and slightly to the side. “Oh, my cover has been blown. Stop the train at once.”

He smiled. “According to my guide, Khabarovsk’s Fedotov Gallery is a must-see for art connoisseurs. Especially for any sightseeing arts and humanities graduates from Cambridge. I almost wish I’d gotten off the train to go. Did you visit?”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “Absolutely stunning. Wish I’d had more time myself. You must go back sometime. And you, Mr. Wayne, what’s your secret? What do you do when you’re not traipsing around Siberia?”

“International art thief,” he replied.

“Ah, I thought as much.”

He patted his jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. “Text from my brother.”

He opened the phone’s camera application and surreptitiously snapped a shot of Felice’s face. He studied the screen for a few more seconds, pretended to type a response, then returned the phone to his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. “My brother’s getting married in a month, and he’s put me in charge of his bachelor party. His wife is worried it’s going to be too risqué.”

Felice raised an eyebrow. “And is it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Men,” she said, laughing, and reached across the table and gave his forearm a squeeze.

8:35 A.M.

After finishing breakfast and lingering over coffee for another half hour, the two parted company with a promise to share another meal before Tucker disembarked at Perm.

Once free, he returned quickly to his berth, pulled out his satellite phone, and speed-dialed the new number Painter Crowe had given him. It was answered immediately.

“Tucker Wayne, I presume,” a female voice answered.

“Ruth Harper.”

“Correct.” Harper’s speech was clipped, precise, but somehow not quite curt. There was also a distinct southern accent there, too.

“What do you have for me?” Harper asked.

“No nice to meet you or how are you?”

“Nice to meet you. How are you? How’s that? Warm and fuzzy enough for you?”

“Marginally,” Tucker replied.

As he paced the small space, he tried to picture what she looked like. She sounded young, but with a bite at the edges that spoke of some toughness. Maybe late thirties. But he knew Sigma operatives had prior military experience, and Harper was likely no exception, so some of that toughness could be from hard lessons learned young, an early maturity gained under fire. From her seriousness, he imagined her dark-haired, wearing glasses, a battle-weary librarian.

He smiled inwardly at that image.

“So what’s your take on the situation?” she asked.

“I think I’ve picked up a tail.”

“Why do you think that, Captain Wayne?” Her tone grew grave with a trace of doubt.

“Just call me Tucker,” he said and explained about the leather-jacketed men on the Khabarovsk train platform and Felice’s insistence they were flashing badges.

“And they weren’t?” Harper asked.

“No. They were just showing a photograph. I’m sure of it. She also claims she visited the Fedotov Gallery in Khabarovsk. It’s been closed for renovations for the past month.”

“And you know this detail how?”

“There’s not much else to do on this train but sleep and read travel brochures.”